One Percent
by wujy
Summary: Scorpius Malfoy's thoughts as he walks through Malfoy Manor, recalling his life. One-shot.


Disclaimer: I do not own and am not affiliated with Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling, or Warner Bros.

Author Note: This one-shot is for DangerouslyAvril's "Completely Random" Challenge.

* * *

Ninety percent of everything is crap. Ninety-_nine_ percent of everything _here_ is worse than that. I can't stand being here in this place that—daily—sucks another piece of my soul into the stonework of the walls to fester along with the souls and spirits of entire _generations_ of Malfoys before me.

I hate this house.

I counted once, when I was a boy, to see how many rooms there were on the entire estate. There are seventy-four rooms in Malfoy Manor. I didn't think about how strange that is until a few years ago, but now I find that number incredibly unbelievable since there have never been more than eleven Malfoys living in the mansion at any single time. There are _sixteen_ rooms in the servants' building. There aren't even _servants_ anymore! The money to pay for them dried up when dad died.

No money left, but this house—this empty shell of a hated _and hateful_ line of murderers and bigots—this is my inheritance. This, and the memories I've collected over the years of living here with my parents. That, in itself, is a laugh. I never did see the point of living in a place where everyone treated me like some kind of pariah, but I didn't realize until I was eleven that my parents were truly warped individuals. Well, dad was, anyway. Mom was just… _there_. I'm not sure she had a purpose other than to look stunning at parties and make dad look respectable, whatever good that did.

School was a whole other issue. Starting at age eleven, that's where I spent the majority of my time but, for the most part, it was only _slightly_ less miserable than being at home had been. It's difficult to be the Gryffindor child of a former Death Eater and I learned that the hard way. Always an outcast.

It was only made worse by the people who fancied themselves comedians, but the jokes aren't funny or even creative anymore and they just get older the more often they get told. I mean, I'm sure that there really are still Death Eaters out there, or at least people who still have the same ideals, but honestly. Must you?

I suppose I was made stronger by it, though, but the first person to insinuate that I should _thank_ the wankers that made my school years a living nightmare will have his ears removed and permanently reattached to his buttocks. No one deserves the childhood I had and no one who's had a similar one should _ever_ have to thank—or accept an apology from—the responsible parties. That would be insult to injury and I'd rather be the one doing the injuring in that case.

Maybe I'm uptight.

I do always seem to be in a bad mood whenever I walk through Malfoy Manor, as I'm doing now. It seems that, with every step, I remember another totally infuriating encounter with my father or mother. Aunt Daphne was another problem, and her bratty children were no better, rich, spoiled piglets that they were, and all out of their trees.

It comes with being related to the Malfoys, I suppose, that you grow up with some disorder or another. They called mine Antisocial Disorder.

As though I needed someone to tell me that I was antisocial. Really.

Idiots.

I do love the ballroom, though. I've never been the best dancer, nor was I ever allowed at any of my parents' numerous parties growing up, but the ballroom held at least a few happier memories for me. It's a cavernous room with a glossy, mosaic floor depicting a dancing swan turning into a beautiful maiden and being watched by a sinister-looking man with eyes made from crushed rubies. I'd always found it strange that the central focus of ages of Malfoy parties was a room dedicated to the story of a naïve princess overcoming an evil sorcerer's curse. It seemed rather ironic to me.

The stained glass windows face the west. The sun must be setting because the light coming through them is tinged red and orange. Standing here in the middle of this room, I can remember perfectly the night I'd attended my own graduation party. The party hadn't been thrown because my parents were in any sort of celebratory mood, but because it was what was expected of them. Those invited to the party were my parents' friends, some of them dragging their eligible—and probably rich—daughters along with them. I had worn a scowl almost the entire evening, I think, and hardly anyone approached me. That was fine, though.

I hated all of them.

"_You look like a vampire."_

I can hear her voice even now like it was yesterday. I had merely taken another sip of my wine and glared at her, willing her to go away with my eyes.

"_Surly, dressed in black, drinking something red from a wine glass."_

Her smile had been radiant and she had laughed at her own joke. I hate people who laugh at their own jokes.

It's pretentious.

I'd told her so, but she hadn't looked bothered by this at all. Instead, she'd just started jabbering on about something inconsequential that I still can't remember anything about. I'd called her a silly girl and told her to leave me alone.

"_No. You'd be happy if I left you alone and you're obviously determined to have an _awful_ time. So, I'm going to stand here and make sure you do."_

I'd had no intelligent reply to that.

"You look like a vampire."

I must be going soft. I didn't even hear her walk into the ballroom behind me, as lost in my thoughts as I was. I'll have to make sure I stop drifting off like that.

"Haven't changed your mind have you?" She looks concerned, but I know she would support whatever decision I made.

"Silly girl."

Her lips are soft.

"Vampire."

"I haven't changed my mind. I didn't mean to keep you waiting."

"Well, you did. We have to go, Scorpius, honestly."

She's beautiful even when she's rolling her eyes at me.

"Yes, dear."

"Come _on_. The realtor is waiting outside for us."

"I'm coming."

I will miss this room because it's where I met her, my Lily. I won't miss anything else about this house, but I will miss this room, this exact spot on the dance floor where, four years ago my life changed just a little bit.

Ninety-nine percent of everything here is worse than crap.

Lily is my one percent.


End file.
